


This Perfect World

by Ilthit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: Fae & Fairies, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 04:50:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20370979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: The King of Hope-Regained has no love for Englishmen.





	1. The King's Favour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ConvenientAlias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/gifts).

> While the work is posted as two chapters to accommodate the Fandom Growth Exchange, it is in fact two fics. What happened was this:
> 
> 1\. Oh shit, this is going to be longer than I intended.   
2\. Oh shit, it's gen.   
3\. All right I'll just write another one.   
4\. Oh shit, this one needs the context of the gen fic I already wrote.
> 
> So the first, longer fic is pre-slash and the second, shorter one, is slash which takes its context from the first fic. 
> 
> I am a mess and I apologize.

The day had dawned bright, though mists still hung low over the nameless king’s realm. The King sat at the window of his private rooms in the southern tower and watched the progress of the pillar of darkness across the forest his hunters lay claim to. 

The view from his tower was incomparable; years of improvements had seen to it. The house that had been untended for so long had bent to his will, and to the will of his subjects. Where once stood a brugh barely fit for fairies, let alone a once-human man, now rose four turrets and a central tower, a blooming garden and a court-yard, and a little further, orderly stables for his horses. Deer and fox populated his forest, and his knights and outriders patrolled the borders in case any of his tiresome neighbors attempted to infest it.

His was a perfect realm. And in that perfection lay the source of his disquiet.

The King had been happy when the old nightmares had fled, when the air had become changed and the magic had nestled in his mind and body, making a home in him. He would never bow to any other again, never submit, never apologize, or be forced to manipulate a superior in order to keep himself safe. He could learn to live again. He would have to.

Hope-Regained had been a pleasure to repair and rearrange, to design and mold. In the eastern wing were now rooms of exquisite beauty, objects of art and arrangements of furniture designed not for comfort but for awe. In the western wing, instruments played themselves, making sweet music that trickled through the halls. In the north was a great feasting hall. In the south, a library of books both fantastical and mundane; more books than the one could read in a human lifetime. But then, the King’s lifetime now was no longer bounded by his biology.

Within his walls, the garden bloomed in geometrical grace—hedges and flowerbeds, apple-trees and cherry-trees, ponds of goldfish and fountains that sparkled silver at the touch of the sun. The air there was sweet and fragrant, a setting for poetry, plays, and philosophy, such as his learned fairy magistrates could provide. On occasion, he invited a mortal philosopher. Arabic or Chinese posed no more challenges to his tongue. Hindi flowed as easily as wine.

But his predecessor’s house had once been perfect too.

The King had not met an Englishman for a very long time; longer perhaps in the mortal world, though he cared not whether it was so. Nor did he now care to meet one, and yet two were headed his way. He had told his hunters to let them pass. 

The tea grew cold in its cup as the King stared out the window, a slight frown marring his handsome brow. 

-

“Mr Strange, this is foolishness,” said Mr Norrell, crouching back on his seat in the carriage, yet pressed close to the window to catch the shapes of trees as they sped past. “The King of Hope- Regained has no reason to help us. And we have left our house unguarded.”

Jonathan Strange suppressed a smile. Norrell had managed to hold on to that complaint for all of fifteen minutes of travel. “The spells will hold,” he reassured him even as the little man pressed his nose into the glass, as if to transport himself back to his books. Hurtfew Abbey went where they went, but it would simply not do to drop a grand house uninvited onto a king’s grounds, even if the king happened to be an old acquaintance. Thus their vehicle, which, while no more or less comfortable than a four-in-hand, was pulled by no earthly or unearthly creature, but carried its own bulk scuttling on six jointed legs across the mossy forest. “And he has invited us! I cannot think of a reason why he _wouldn’t_ help us, if it is in his power. And even if it isn’t, why then we will be catching up with an old connection.”

“He did not invite us,” Mr Norrell snapped. “We are calling upon him, and he has consented to be at home to us, according to those frightful fluttering creatures of his.” 

“Even so, we may as well attempt to make friends again. You may do very well without human companionship, sir, but on occasion I do miss society.”

Mr Norrell made a contemptuous sound at the back of his throat, which Strange thought it best not to dwell upon. His colleague, he was sure, was living in his perfect world already, one that precisely suited his temperament. It was only for Strange that he had come here.

The darkness rushed ahead of them, retreated behind them, leaving odd birds with the faces of women cawing madly at the suddenly returning sun.

\- 

The King climbed down the winding stairs of his tower, passing the dreams of masterpieces without a second look. He could have simply willed himself to the courtyard, but the shuffle of his silk shoes on the stairs gave him music to think to. Norrell and Strange. Strange and Norrell. They represented his old life, and his break from it, and he anticipated them with mixed feelings. 

Standing still and silent was a skill the King had perfected a long time ago, and so he stood upright before his fountain, waiting without fear as the pillar swallowed his castle. The sun went out; lights flickered and dimmed. The King extended his consciousness and could hear, feel, the carriage crashing through the underbrush.

“My liege,” said a captain of his guard, her magnificent sword, a gift from the devil to an ancient knight in exchange for his soul, out of its sheath and readied. “They are here.”

“Of course.” The King raised a hand, irritated. “Put that away. They are our guests.”

The captain bowed and scuttled backwards on her wolf’s paws, her head lowered in submission, though her ears still twitched nervously. The people of Faerie had never been fond of magicians. 

The gates burst open at a thought. The galloping beast of a carriage danced outside on the road surrounding the castle. It settled after turning around twice, as if unsure of how to stop, and lowered itself into the ground. Its door swung open.

\- 

“My dear sir,” muttered Strange under his breath as Mr Norrell half-fell out of the carriage. “Do watch your feet.” His offer of a helping hand went without note, however, and Norrell clambered on to his feet on his own. Strange had a feeling he would be suffering from his once-tutor’s displeasure for at least another day. He would come around—he always did, usually over a cup of something warm by the fire and a revival of one or another of their favorite theoretical discussions.

The castle walls were supporting ivy and bristle, but nothing like the wild untended messes they had been met with at the other great Faerie houses they had dared approach. The sun shone brighter here, and all life breathed with a quality of—not happiness, precisely, though the air smelled of bittersweet memories. Of cleanliness, and orderliness. Standing inside Stephen Black’s realm felt like slipping into fresh sheets after weeks of rolling about in one’s own dried sweat. Mr Norrell straightened his waistcoat nervously. Even Strange wondered if perhaps he should have changed out of his banyan and slippers.

The doors were pulled aside, and a fairy with goat-legs and soft white hair pranced forward, bowed, and showed them in through a verdant garden. The bubbling of water revealed the fountain before it emerged from behind the apple-trees: a tall, delicate work of masonry with water streaming from chalices and trumpets, swarming with detail that Strange could not make out from this distance in the dark, despite the lanterns lit around the garden paths. Before the fountain stood Stephen Black. 

The goat-legged creature bowed low before him. “My liege. The magicians Fearfulness and Arrogance are here to beg an audience with you.” 

“I say!” muttered Norrell, but even he did not dare raise his voice. 

Stephen had changed from that silent, dignified figure Strange had known in the shadows of Sir Walter’s halls, and yet something of that quality remained. He wore whites and greens now, in brilliant silk embroidery, and a delicate band of silver upon his brow. He raised his chin to meet Strange’s smile with inscrutable gravity. His servants and guards gathered around them, each a fairy more obvious than most Strange had met during his travels; the folk of this land were very fond of wearing human-like glamours. His eyes lingered upon the wolf-woman, and the pale moist creature whose hair hung perpetually wet along their back, and that young archer whose back of bark was growing twigs of oak-leaves.

“You ought to have had the good sense to come at night,” said Stephen. “You have upset my harpies.”

“My apologies,” said Strange, who in truth had not been aware of the time. Norrell was busy looking around the dark garden, at the servants, at the gravel at his feet—anywhere but at the King. “I suppose we thought it best to rely upon typical calling hours.” A blatant lie. He found it wonderful that the art of being social was returning to him with barely any effort.

“Well, you are here now, Mr Strange, Mr Norrell.” Stephen turned to the elder magician. “I hope you understand, sir, that your presence here in no way indicates my forgiveness for your crimes. Mr Strange’s letter explained your situation—where one goes, the other must follow.”

“What crimes?” squeaked Mr Norrell. “I have done nothing to you—nothing! If anything, I have given you your present good fortune--”

The King’s nostrils flared. The ground trembled. The wolf-woman placed her paw on her sword’s hilt. Mr Norrell grew quiet. “I speak,” said Stephen quietly, “of your crimes against Lady Pole. The same crimes that placed me under a spell. A decade of terror, Mr Norrell. A decade of despair. You. Are. Not. Welcome. Here.”

There was the minutest twist in the air, and Mr Norrell vanished in a puff smoke the fragrance of early mornings. Strange spun around. The darkness remained, so did he within the garden. Norrell was either nearby, or dead. “Oh, sir, what have you done?” he cried. “He… I… Oh!” 

“Calm yourself, Mr Strange. I locked him in your carriage outside. Certainly you can stand such a short distance of separation. Now, come.” He extended a hand. “We can talk more comfortably inside.”

It began to dawn upon Strange that he may never have truly seen Stephen Black before; had not known him; and that, with all the years of study and experiment he had behind him to learn how to twist the fabric of reality into the stories he wished to tell, he had not even come close to the true heart of power. “It is the way fairy magic works,” he muttered to himself, still staring. “A mere thought will cause a thing to be.”

“No,” said the King testily, but instead of explaining further he crooked his fingers. “I said come.” As soon as the words were out, the King pressed his lips tightly together as if to trap them. He continued in a different tone. “A tea service is waiting for us. Please.” He opened his hand and swept his arm towards the north tower.

Strange followed, trailing a whirl of thoughts, though his mouth formed a placid smile. It seemed the intervening years had taught Stephen Black how to behave as a fairy king should, and not as a—a talented gentleman in a demanding profession. He was beginning to wonder, with some irritation, if Stephen would consent to be quizzed at all, let alone lend his power and authority to help the magicians. There may have to be persuasion involved. 

Jonathan Strange was many things, but he was still and above all an Englishman. 

\- 

The King paused at the door to his feasting hall and considered the limits of his hospitality. One made allowances for guests, and yet he bridled to let a man into his house in Strange’s half-dressed condition. He was not wearing so much as a waistcoat, his hands were black with ink, and one of his slippers was ripped at the seams.

He stepped aside eventually and repeated a stern “Please,” but his mood was not improved. 

Inside, the hall was lit with white-gold fairy fires, their light leaping and dancing against the walls. Strange blinked his dark-rimmed eyes at the brightness, and the King noted he had neither shaved nor washed in preparation to this interview. It seemed to him Venice had never entirely left the man. He seated himself at the head of the table, upon which crumpets and jam was crowded with fairy apples, Turkish coffee and shrimp tempura. The tea poured itself. “Sit.”

The magician sat, placing one dirty hand upon the flawless table-cloth. “Sir. What a lovely service.”

The King nodded. It was. “Do try the tempura.”

Strange nibbled on a fried shrimp in dough and proclaimed it delightful.

The King crossed his fingers in front of his mouth but did not bother sampling the delicacies. “I must assume this is no social call. I have no more business with you, Mr Strange, that I am aware of. Why are you here?”

Strange swallowed before answering. “My good sir. We are countrymen--”

“No,” said the King. 

“Friends?”

The King frowned. Strange shook his head and sighed. “No, I suppose not. And I suppose I do not need to tell you what my associate and myself most wish to accomplish at present, or your connection to our work.”

“I will not help you break your curse. Mr Norrell deserves his lot.”

“Yes, perhaps, but do I? My wife awaits me in England still.” 

The King inclined his head. He had wanted to help Strange once, had felt sympathy for his struggles. He had watched Strange bent over his work, suffering for the loss of a wife who was in a place worse than that country grave he mourned over. Perhaps that was what had killed all of the King’s feeling—knowing full well that it was Strange’s neglect that had led that good woman into his predecessor’s clutches. “And does your wife want you back?”

“Always,” said Strange, and there was a softness in his features then. “Arabella and I have… an understanding.”

An odd choice of words, but the King let it pass. He rubbed his fingertips together. A part of him was already decided: He should turn the magician out with nothing. Helping him would only release Norrell back upon the world to do his evil. The alternative was to take Norrell for himself, lock him up under the floor of his castle or simply have him killed. That is what his predecessor would have done, had he dared to try. 

It had become increasingly clear to the King since his assumption of the crown how many of his captor’s actions had been those of a coward as well as a windbag. The gentleman with the thistledown hair had not dared challenge an English magician directly, and had confined himself to skulking about Strange in the shadows, making what mischief he could get away with. All that ancient power—_this_ ancient power—and the fairy had been _afraid_.

“Well, Mr Strange,” said the King at last. “We are in Faerie, so let us follow the customs of the land. Let us trade.”

“Very well,” said Strange, and patted his chin in thought. “We have many books, of course Mr Norrell would not wish to part with them--”

“I have books.”

“Not books of magic, surely?”

Stephen waved a hand dismissively. 

“Ah, well, then… We can travel through the worlds, if we need to, anywhere but in England, or where Englishmen travel. We could trade for fabulous Russian jewels and furs...”

“I can have furs, if I desire them, Mr Strange, more fabulous than anything that empire can provide.”

“Then what is it that you want?”

“What do I want?” Stephen asked, and Strange thought he detected the shadow of a smile on his grim face. “To know my friends are well and happy, and then forget England and Englishmen ever existed, or that I was ever theirs to mock and abuse.”

“That is much to ask of an Englishman.” 

“I do not ask it!” Stephen stood, placing his hands upon the table. “Mr Strange, it is clear to me that you have nothing I want, and can do nothing to please me or aid me. You come to me as a beggar. Is that not so?”

“It seems, Mr Black, that you have already decided not to help us.”

“My name is not Black!” Stephen cried. Strange sat still—not afraid, he was far too mad to be afraid, as Norrell often pointed out—but stunned. He had never yet seen Stephen Black lose his composure in such a way. “My name is not Black,” he continued more calmly. “I have no name. I am the king of this country—that is all anyone needs to know.”

And Strange knew then that he was telling the truth. “Of course! Your _true_ name is not Stephen Black! It does not matter, of course— If you know it yourself.”

The man he had known as Stephen Black stayed quiet. 

“You do not know it.”

“I do not need it, nor do I want it. And there is no way, now, for it to be obtained.”

“Are you so sure? I could—”

“I say I do not want it. You are pushing the limits of my hospitality, sir.”

“I will find your name for you,” said Strange, excitement bubbling out of his belly and into dancing fingers. “Town records—Memories of the dead...”

“I am warning you.”

“I have found out secrets beyond the grave before, after all. There was a passage in one of Margot--”

“OUT.”

The fairylights dimmed, the glimmer of silverware dulled and vanished, the air twisted like an eddy in a spring, and decompressed again into the inside of his carriage. Mr Norrell blinked up from his book. 

A thud like an arrow hitting wood, and their carriage reared on its hindlegs, writhed, and began to gallop at such a speed that Mr Norrell whacked himself in the head with his open book and the carriage lamp swung wildly side to side. The darkness sped alongside them and before them, scattering all winged creatures. 

“His name!” Strange gasped as he got his bearings. “Mr Norrell—we have our task.”

-

It proved more difficult than one might have thought to obtain records from England when one was trapped in a tower of eternal darkness that would capture any English magician that wandered inside its perimeter. Norrell was quite adamant that that was precisely what would happen, and that nothing else explained his own entrapment; and further, that any attempt to put that to the test, such as landing in the middle of a market square in Portsmouth as Strange had suggested, was quite out of the question. Two magicians were company enough; if they were three or four or five, life could become quite intolerable. And so they were confined to scrying and employing agents. 

Their first choice had given them a flat no. Their second made his excuses, but really could not extricate himself from Scotland at such a short notice. There were other magicians in England, now, but few who thought well of Arrogance and Fearfulness, and indeed even their first two, Strange suspected, would rather not have heard of either of them ever again. It gave him some disquiet, as well, to see the lines that had multiplied around those familiar eyes. How many years had passed since they had left England? He ate, he slept, he read, but night never ended. How would he know? 

“Are there no fairies who pass that way who owe us a favour?” asked Norrell over a tea break, which may have been breakfast or dinner—it depended on whether one considered time on Mr Norrell’s schedule or Mr Strange’s. 

“Several of each, sir,” said Strange, “but none who fit both requirement. Hookclaw’s clan of goblins have not gone into the mortal realms for generations, and her ladyship’s kith and kin are bound to her country.”

“She owes us greatly since we helped her with her border dispute, accidentally or otherwise. And perhaps she might send her mortal slave.” Norrell tapped the table with his quill. “But would he acquit himself well? Or would seeing England only make him more resentful of his present duties?”

“Mr Norrell,” said Strange, “I promised my wife I would come back to her.”

There was nothing more to be said. They dispatched word to the lady after crumpets.

-

“Nothing.” Strange threw the papers down onto a table already overflowing with books and parchments. The favour of the lady had been valuable, and they had thrown it away on nothing. He could still remember the storm in her left hand, the poison in her right eye. They would not be welcome at her house again. “The only name I find is Stephen Black. That _must_ be his true name. Is it? Could it be? Did he lie to me?”

“Perhaps he did,” said Mr Norrell. “Any fairy worth his salt would. And Stephen Black is more fairy than man, now. A name gives you power over one of them. Try it, if you like.”

“Try summoning the king of Hope-Regained without so much as a warning?” As soon as Strange heard the idea, he wanted to try it, but the past few years had taught him to quell these mad passions when they came upon him. He knew it would not win him the King’s favour. 

Norrell waved a hand. “So? If he comes, he will have to do as you tell him to. If he does not, we know we must keep looking.”

“Later,” Strange decided at last, “if we have no luck.”

\- 

The Well of Lost Voices was deep and its walls were slimy with muck. There was no question of which of them would descend. Mr Strange did not mind the darkness; after all, he never knew any light but what candles and stars provided. Not did he mind the filth so much. “Pineapples,” he muttered to himself as the voices brushed past him.

“What’s that, Mr Strange?” called Norrell from above. Strange suspected he heard some concern in his colleague’s voice, for once. 

“Nothing. Lower me a little further still, please.” The rope trembled and dropped a little further down. If he could only find a voice that knew Stephen Black’s true name…

There was a skittering from below. Rats? But no—no rat was that big, even in Faerie. He held out his lantern, but even before the thing came into light, he had dropped it and was climbing up the rope as fast as he could. He could hear its teeth, and see the glow of a flickering light in its empty eye sockets. “Up, Mr Norrell, if you please!” he cried, but the crank did not turn—instead, a squeak, a mutter, and then a flash of something bright as the moon on a cloudless night. Strange squeezed his eyes shut at the last moment, but still he had to ascend blinder than he had gone down.

He was not followed. The skittering thing snapped its teeth at him from below.

“You did say this place was not guarded?” he asked as he pulled himself up out of the well, perhaps a little short for once. 

“It wasn’t,” said Mr Norrell. “I did scry, and the texts...”

“The texts, sir, appear to be somewhat out of date.”

They stayed by the well three nights; each night, the snapping of teeth came to the very edge of the well, and the eerie light reflected upon its beams. “Let us try somewhere a little more friendly,” said Strange on the third night. “If we fail elsewhere, we can return here.”

\- 

Strange had read a great deal upon the subject of Hell from sources both precise and delusional. So far, it did not meet his expectations. 

“State no names,” said their guide, if you could call it that. Bone crunched under their feet. 

“I suppose we should be happy it is only a desert,” mumbled Mr Norrell. The magician walked very close behind Strange as they crossed the plain of bone. 

“Where, if I may ask, are the tortured souls?” Strange asked their guide, but the thing only laughed. 

The ravine revealed itself gradually as they approached, a thin dark line in the white horizon. Mr Norrell grasped Strange’s arm. “This was unwise. You are not—we are not yet ready to—“

“They are not that different from fairies,” Strange whispered back.

“Here we are.” Their guide’s voice was mocking. “You wished to speak to the woman. Pay your price.”

“We will see her first.”

The guide spat. “You will see her, but you will not talk to her until you have paid.” And with that, it retreated and climbed down into the ravine. A putrid smell crawled up those deep walls and hung like a translucent curtain over the desert, belying its calm. 

The magicians waited. After a while, Mr Norrell sat down. After a little more, he had taken out a notebook and begun to scribble in it in his small, precise handwriting. Strange sat down next to him, then lay down for a nap, but dreams in Hell were even more uncomfortable than the bone he lay on. 

When their guide returned, pulling itself up out of the black maw, it did not look happy. “Her soul is gone! Missing! I was told she would be delivered. No one can find her.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” said Strange. “We came all this way.”

“My price!” wailed the demon. 

“We are unlikely to pay it for nothing, are we?” Mr Strange donned his hat, which had fallen from his head during his attempt at sleeping, and helped Mr Norrell up to his feet. “I must say, I do not think much of the might of Hell if it cannot locate one soul in its care.”

“Stop,” Mr Norrell whispered, and tugged at Strange’s arm. Strange tipped his hat at the demon. “Good day to you, sir.”

They walked, then ran, and the darkness receded from the plains of Hell, allowing the red sun to beat down upon its merciless expanse once again.

-

The Name-Eater’s golden plate stood empty before Strange, who sat quite comfortably on his tree stump while Norrell fidgeted on his rock. 

“Well?” said the Name-Eater in a voice like bald rock jutting out of a shallow lake. “I am hungry.”

Strange looked at his hands and hesitated. The names shivered between his palms. “Go on,” said Norrell. “They are old names of the long dead. They are already nearly forgotten. No one will miss them.”

Strange thought of his promise to Arabella and set the names down upon the plate. 

The great animal shuddered and coughed, its maw opening up down into the gut. The stink of centuries wafted into Strange’s face, but it was not much more unpleasant than drinking mouse had been. He closed his eyes and reached his hand into the susurrus of names, until one slippery small thing landed in it. He closed his fingers around it, and it bit him. He clenched his jaw and held on tighter. 

“Quickly!” Strange blinked his eyes open. The beast was gone and in its place was Mr Norrell holding an empty jam jar in his small hands. Strange slammed the name into the jar and Norrell closed the lid tight. 

“Did we… Is that…?”

“We did it!” Norrell rejoiced. “Oh, we are the very best of magicians, you and I.”

“Yes,” Strange said, his gaunt face lighting up with a smile. “I do think you are right.”

\- 

The gate of Hope-Regained was shut and guarded when the magicians reached it in their carriage. Nothing much seemed changed; only the flowers that had closed their petals upon the approach of the darkness were now buds, when last they had been in full bloom. Strange did wonder how long they had been gone—but such thoughts were useless in the present moment. 

“Come, let us in,” he called out to the perching bird-women at the walls of Stephen’s house. Today they held the aspect of ravens, black wings folded and framing pale breasts and necks. “We have something for the King. I am sure he would like to see it.”

One of the harpies flapped her wings. “I will ask him. And if he does not want to see you, we will feast upon your entrails.” There was an excited shuffling and cawing among the harpies as she took off, their claws clicking upon the stone, and soon thereafter cries of disappointment as the gates swung wide. 

“I… I’ll stay out here, shall I?” said Norrell from the window of the carriage. “I do not think I am entirely welcome here.”

Strange turned to him with a wave and a smile. “Of course, sir. One of us must guard the carriage.”

“Yes, of course, I will... guard the carriage.” He eyed the unfriendly forest around them and retreated back into the shadows.

The Second Magician passed through the gates alone, hungry eyes upon his back, a jam-jar in his hands. 

Knives, spears and arrows greeted him, their points glistening in the light of the lanterns. Stephen stood by the fountain, just as they had met before, but now there was a helmet in the shape of a strange animal’s head upon his head, its steely teeth resting upon his brow, and he carried a silver-bladed knife in his right hand. Stephen, Strange realized, was furious. 

“You dare come here again?” the King growled. “My people will rip you to pieces as soon as I give the word.” There was a ripple through the ranks of his guards, but Stephen himself stood perfectly still. 

“I think you have misunderstood me, sir,” said Strange. “I have come to bargain, as we agreed.”

“We agreed on nothing. I told you I will not help you. I told you that you have nothing I want.” 

Strange held up the jar and shook it at him. Stephen’s eyes widened a fraction, his chin lifted. “Impossible.”

“It wasn’t easy.”

“Why? I told you I do not want it.”

“But, sir, it is your name. It—”

“Curse all Englishmen, will you not listen to me?” the King cried out. “I do not want it! I sent dreams to the lady’s servant, so he would drive around in circles in the mortal lands, and never find anything of any use to you. I sent nightmares into the the Well of Lost Voices, so you could not steal my secrets from it. I sent my spy to Hell to extract the soul of my mother so you could not force her to tell it to you. How do you have my name?”

Mr Strange lowered the jar he had been offering. “It seems, sir, that I may have misunderstood. But wh—”

“Give it to me now,” said Stephen, holding out his hand, “and I will dispose of it. It does not belong to you.”

“No,” said Strange, and hugged the jar to himself. “Not until you lift the curse.”

“I may do so,” growled Stephen, his hand still outstretched, “and after I retrieve my name I will curse you anew for what you have done. I am sure I can come up with something worse this time.”

“This time?”

“_Give it to me._”

What Strange did then surprised even himself. A whisper rose as he held out the jar to Stephen, who snatched it from him. 

The two stood staring at one another for a while. The candle behind Stephen’s eyes seemed to dim from its infernal flame; what replaced it, Strange could not say. That candle still shone too bright, too golden, too perfect. He wondered why he had not noted it before. 

Strange felt his knees buckle, and he sat down upon the gravel. “Darkness and misery,” he said in a quizzical tone. “Forever.”

The gravel crunched as Stephen turned on his heel and walked up the path, away from him. The castle grounds faded into darkness. 

No, not darkness. There was a lamp swinging before his eyes and his seat bounced and weaved as the carriage made its noisy way through the thicket, dragging the night with it. There was a distressed noise Strange knew very well.

“Mr Strange, the jar. Where is the jar?”

Strange said nothing, only spread his arms. How could even he explain what he had done? It made no sense, went counter to every law of Faerie—but it had simply been the only thing to do.

\- 

The King placed the jar upon his desk and rested his chin on his crossed hands. The name whispered to him within. The last piece of the puzzle of who he was.

What he did with it in the end is his own affair.

-

“Mmhh.” Strange burrowed deeper into his blankets. He had barely been asleep these past two hours, and a damned bright light had appeared right above his bed. It was not the first time he had been woken up by some strange phenomena of the lands they traveled through—ghosts had come to share his bed, dumb creatures with the faces of children had crawled out from under his desk, and keys had spilled endlessly out of the French clock at the stroke of midnight, clattering on to the floor in a flood and making a racket to wake up even Mr Norrell on the other side of the hallway.

There was a banging on his door. It seemed the light did not plague him alone. “Mr Strange! Oh—Oh, I—I am coming in.”

Strange pulled his battered pillow over his head as the door whinged open and the patter of slippered feet crossed the floor. “Sir, please, calm yourself. If we wait, it might go away.”

The blankets were forcibly pulled from him. Mr Strange scrambled around, his long legs tangling in his bundled up banyan. Mr Norrell stood beside his bed, bathed in light, an expression of confused happiness upon his prudish little face. It was not an expression that face was particularly suited for. “Look.”

From the window of the bedroom spilled sunlight—pure, undiluted, golden. It hurt Strange’s eyes, but he rushed to the window and leaned out to see the misty mountain range in the horizon, and a flock of cranes overhead. 

“We can go home,” said Norrell, and Strange was not surprised to hear regret in the sigh that followed.

“We can go home,” Strange repeated. 

-

They did go home, if only for a few years. England, it seemed, no longer wanted or needed them, and there were many more worlds to explore, secrets to discover, and books to read and write. And there were friends, even in these hostile places.

That the King came to concede himself anything of the sort to Strange, if not to Norrell, was no small feat, but time changes many things, even as it flows differently in one world than the other. Old resentments wear thin in the face of it; and of the inexplicable.


	2. The Magician's Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Strange is the exception.

The King of Hope-Regained, it is said, had no love for Englishmen. Those young magicians of the new age who succeeded in reaching the forests that surrounded his house could expect to have their hair torn by the claws of harpies, their feet snagged by living vine that wound itself around their feet, and their eyes filled with long-forgotten nightmares. Worse would come, the King’s guards would tell them, if they persisted. None breached those defenses. 

And yet (it is also said) there was one Englishman, and only one, for whom that wall of bark parted, and behind whom it closed again.

What the Magician Arrogance had done to gain the King’s favour had become legend, a story that went nowhere and answered few questions, and it has been told at length elsewhere. *1

-

A clatter and a clunk, and the china cracked on the stone floor, spilling hot tea across the flagstones. “You always serve tea,” Strange muttered. “Port or brandy would do us better at a time like this.” 

The King’s fingers closed around the white table-cloth and yanked it. There was another clatter and then a clang as the silver service tray joined the teapot. Strange’s fingers left ink smudges on the back of the King’s silk-embroidered jacket.

\- 

There was the rattle of curtain hooks. Jonathan Strange groaned and burrowed deeper under the covers. “I should expect you to appreciate the sun more than this,” said the King. “It was not easy to return it to you.”

“Mmm,” said the pile of blankets. Mr Strange’s opinion of sunlight upon waking had remained fixed since boyhood, and had not been moved by his years of being trapped in suffocating darkness. 

“I expect I will not keep you long, sir, and I would rather you not spend your entire visit dilly-dallying in bed. There is poetry before the noon, and I thought to show you the pleasure-dome before the afternoon was out. You would appreciate its construction, I think.” 

“Perhaps,” said Mr Strange, though he had not a great deal of interest in architecture. “Or perhaps you would do well to cancel the poetry and come dilly-dally with me. I am not yet done with your bed, or you, and intend to get somewhat dirtier still before the bath you have no doubt already ordered for me.” He stuck out a foot and twiddled his toes invitingly. 

There was a moment of quiet in the room. “You are a most curious creature, Mr Strange, for a magician.” 

“Then come and study me, so you may understand me better. I am yours to examine, sir.”

Strange had just long enough to start thinking he had been rejected before the mattress bounced under the King’s weight.

-

“Magic is full of contradictions,” said Strange over their delayed breakfast.

“No,” said the King and, in that irritating way of his, continued to eat his buttered croissant with a knife and fork without elaborating further. 

Strange made an exasperated noise. “Will you let me finish? I have prepared an observation to present to you, sir, and I do wish you’d let me finish telling it before you dismiss it entirely.”

“I apologize,” said the King, and Strange could not be sure whether his gravity was genuine, or a form of gentle mockery. He decided it must be the latter, but forged on nonetheless. His fingers tore apart his own croissant, reducing it into crumbs and splinters of pastry.

“Magic is full of contradictions, as I said. In England, one must formulate one’s request just so; in France, much the same applied; but as we traveled on into the Peninsula, it responded best to spells I barely knew, or that came to me on their own. Yet there must be a structure, even if it is different in a different place, and when dealing with a different entity. Magic speaks, but in multiple languages, and what is pleasing to the trees of England is offensive to the stones of Spain. Therefore, magic can never be fully mastered. It slips away from one, if one does not keep running after it. There—what is there for you to argue against in that?”

The King finished his croissant, wiped his lips, sipped his tea, and at last answered. “When I inherited my kingdom, I inherited no books with it. I have books now, as you well know, a library that is growing still. I know very little of forms of address or the minutiae you magicians spend long hours discussing, and I use neither to bend this place or my servants to my will.” 

“Yes, but...”

“This kingdom is mine; it chooses to be mine, and when I request things of it, it complies. That is ‘fairy magic’, as you call it. I call it power. Power is magic; and more than that, power is power, Mr Strange, for as long as one holds it. If this land chooses another leader, I will become as nothing once again. That is why I read. Knowledge, after all, cannot be taken away from one. Most importantly, that is why I run my house in an orderly manner. My kingdom’s needs must be satisfied, and stability is the necessary basis of happiness… My dear fellow, please desist from writing on the table-cloth.”

“Ah, apologies,” said Strange. “May I trouble you for a piece of paper?”

The King drew in a long breath. “If you must write this down, you must not have listened in the first place.”

“Nevertheless?” Strange’s pencil stood poised over the once-spotless cloth. The King waved a hand, and a pristine notebook appeared underneath it.

“It will do you no good,” he remarked, though an observer might have caught a touch of exasperated affection in his regard as Strange began to write anew.

\- 

Among the apple-trees of the King’s garden a picnic was laid out, with baskets of buns, cheese and wine set out for the guests. The Englishness of the scene struck Strange somewhat comical, considering the character of the poets. They sat in solemn cross-legged poses or flitted about in the air without ever settling down, or pranced awkwardly on their hooves beside the blanket. The cheese was universally reviled, but he was not surprised to find no poet ever declined a glass of wine. 

The readings were in Hindi, Arabic, Chinese, and stranger tongues still; different cadences and forms; performances emotional, aggressive, mild and subtle. Strange himself got into the wine rather heavily, despite not having had much taste for drunkenness since Venice. 

At least the garden was beautiful, and if nothing else, he could content himself admiring the King’s profile, and the small frown upon his brow as he listened.

-

They did ride out in the afternoon. The King’s horses were all fine, obedient creatures—how could they be otherwise? Strange’s roan mare danced over the uneven mossy ground as they took a shortcut through the forest, following a babbling stream. Strange might have taken more pride in his horsemanship had he not known the mare would have carried him as gently if he had sat upon her back like a sack of potatoes.

The King sat still upon his own grey, breathing in the aroma of greenery. He looked less stiff here, though his back was still ramrod straight; in the shadow of the leaves, he appeared more human than fairy, more a man than a king. And, Strange thought, he looked happy. An odd contradiction—for a man who hated contradictions—and who appeared in speech so fond of order, to transform so in the chaos of growing and decaying life. 

They trotted on as the horses’ hooves found their path, or one wound ahead of them to accommodate the lord of the land. Up the ground rose, until the trees thinned and the horses were forced to leap from moss to rock to bare earth, and they came upon a clearing on a hill, from which rose a single marble folly in the Roman style. This was no ruin—there was a watering-trough, steps into the platform inside the white pillars, and above it a measured dome that caught the sun and drew shapes upon itself with shadows. The King and the magician tied up their horses and climbed the few steps into the structure. In the centre of it burned a sweet-smelling fire upon a golden dish. Silk-covered pillows were set around it in a circle. 

“Very pretty,” said Strange, wondering why precisely they had come. 

The King sank onto one of the pillows and sat upon it cross-legged. He gestured for Strange to join him. The magician perched on one beside him, his long legs sticking out with a regrettable lack of grace. He peered curiously into the fire to see if sprites danced within the flames, but stayed his questions. 

“I come here to quiet the mind,” the King explained. “In Eastern lands, in India and China, techniques have been developed to still and focus one’s wild galloping thoughts. Will you try it with me?”

Strange, who was quite familiar with wild thoughts, agreed with some reservation, and spent the next thirty minutes squirming and sighing and tapping, until finally he fixed upon entertaining himself with a little erotic fantasy. The birds were still. Even the breeze fell and the leaves’ murmur turned into a whispers as the kingdom calmed down, mirroring the mood of its king.

\- 

“You are restless,” the King remarked over dinner. “Am I losing my magician already?”

“Certainly not,” said Strange, picking at his pheasant breast with his fork. He missed his books. 

The King drew in breath, then let it go, and carved into his own meal. “I know my kingdom is not set up for excitement. It is not excitement I wanted after that last decade in England. Knowing your character, sir, I understand it cannot hold your interest for long.” 

“I would dispute that, sir,” said Strange, setting his fork down, “were it not so apparent. I am sorry. Your kingdom is truly beautiful, beyond compare. It is only that...”

“...A place set up for peace and quiet is not what you need or want. I know. As much as there is to learn here, it can no doubt be learned faster elsewhere. And you do not speak the languages of those philosophers I invite.”

“Sometimes I do wish I wasn’t quite so much an exception to your hatred of Englishmen, my dear.”

The King only smiled, and Strange felt a flutter in his chest. Contrary to what he had just said, there was a certain satisfaction in being special. And he would climb down a dozen more dark wells for the privilege of that smile. 

A place of peace. Yes, this was one, and Strange needed one. But there was no running away from the noise inside his own head. “It does not mean I am ungrateful. Or that I will not come back.”

“I know.”

\- 

Strange’s carriage stood outside the gates of Hope-Regained House, dozing lighty on its spidery legs. Night had long since fallen, but the full moon shone bright above, lighting the way. The forest stood ready to part and let the magician pass through once again. 

It had been half an hour since the carriage had been called. 

There was desperation in the way they kissed, Strange’s back pressed against the heavy ornate oak door. They had broken apart for good-nights half a dozen times now, only to return into the embrace. “Come with me,” said Strange. “Stay one more night,” said the King. Neither would acquiesce. 

“Very well,” said Strange at last, his breath heavy and his body no longer in any state for travel. “Another hour, perhaps.” 

The King wrapped his arms around him. The air twisted and went black, then reformed into the bedroom in the royal quarters. Strange laughed out loud as he was tossed on to the bed, and the King climbed in after him, between his spread knees, his face blossoming into a full smile. 

There would be moonlight enough later to guide the carriage back to Hurtfew Abbey and to his books; and if not, perhaps there would be sunlight.

\- 

1\. Anon, “The King’s Favour” (2019), Archive of Our Own. In short, the story describes how Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell perform a series of tasks in an attempt to recover the King’s true name, which had been lost to all records. This ends in Strange’s reconciliation with the King and the breaking of the curse his predecessor, the King of Lost-Hope, had laid upon Strange.


End file.
